Return
by Cherry474
Summary: The story of apprentice miner Madar and the stumbling recovery of conglomerate Tysin Weyr when Thread unexpectedly returns. Yes, this is indeed based on a RP idea, but I don't have time to moderate a forum, so you get fanfic instead. Chapter 1 improved.
1. Chapter 1: Thread

**All right, here goes nothing. I apologize for my pacing, I'm always either too fast or too slow. Sorry for those two visitors that read the earlier one. I've had some coffee now and can think straight when I write. I hope you enjoy it.**

**EDIT: Argh, I forgot to run spellcheck before I saved. I'm such an idiot. Sorry about that, guys, the error is fixed now. Hopefully the rest of the story will run more smoothly.**

**Edit 2: Thanks to GinnyStar for catching my mistake. Tysin's founder's name was T'sin, I'd forgotten the honorific.** **Guess that coffee didn't help me much, huh?**

* * *

_Preface_

There was no more Thread.

Over the Turns, the draconic population began to dwindle, and the more pragmatic watch-whers became more common. Dragons took on excavation duties and helped open new mines, or carried lumber for building.

Eventually, there were no longer enough dragons on Pern to necessitate multiple Weyrs. First, Telgar combined with Benden. Then Fort combined with High Reaches. Ista combined with Southern. Telgar-Benden combined with Ista-Southern, and so on.

Eventually, there was only one Weyr left, at the location of old Benden. They called it Benden, of course. Stringing the names of all old Weyrs together was just too much. But then a massive earthquake decimated the Weyr.

After the confusion died down, Weyrwoman Sira, Weyrleader D'sej, and their bronzeriders and queenriders held an emergency council while the Weyrfolk waited nervously, trying to salvage what they could.

The obvious solution would have been to move to another Weyr. But _which_? After much debate, the council came to a conclusion. Sira's Delrayuth was due to rise. They decided the new Weyrleader would personally decide where the new Weyr would be.

Delrayuth rose, and was caught by bronze Raylth, rider T'sin. The new Weyr's fate was up to him.

Weyrleader T'sin decided to hear testimonies of everyone that had lived at the other Weyrs, and he came to the conclusion that they were all equally-strong. The answer would be either to split up again, or to pick a new location entirely.

The latter was a tempting choice, if difficult to carry out. This way, he would avoid the ire of those from shunned Weyrs. He chose a peninsula on the southern continent with a small volcanic archipelago off its coast.

Tysin Weyr was born.

* * *

_Five Hundred Turns Later_

Tysin Hold was on the largest island off the Weyr's coast, and contained the best firestone mines in the chain. It had nice cliffs formed by irregular sprays of magma, a face of which formed the main mine. It was practically _made_ of firestone. This cliff, and the Minerhall Camp, sat by a beautiful beach.

Madar sat atop this cliff, staring at the night surf through the hot, humid air. It was worth the buzzing, biting insects to watch Pern at night, slumbering peacefully on. Below, he could hear the wher-shift miners working in the mine.

He was supposed to be asleep. But he wouldn't miss this for all Pern. It was so calm at night, so still. This was life, humming songs while he sat in the soft light of the dimming glowbasket in his lap, his slender body swaying with the tune in his head. The hot wind played with his neck-length brown hair, making it brush against his skin. Never once did his brown eyes leave the gentle summer surf, the dark water lapping at the beach, providing time to his tune.

His humming continued, to the martial tune of a now-useless song that was swiftly fading from Pernese memory. In fact, he only knew the tune rather than the words, except for one line stuck in his head, _"Free the flame and sear the grasses"_. A song about fighting Thread. Now all firestone was good for was allowing the dragons to polish the walls of their future weyrs. In fact, everyone was more interested in the veins of copper ore in the mine – now _that_ could be used for something.

But until there were no dragons left on Pern, Lord Holder Baunt had said, they would maintain a firestone stock. Just in case. He was always a "just in case" person. He ran the Hold very cautiously, always making backup plans and preparing for even the most outlandish scenarios. In fact, he had commissioned all the buildings in the Hold – including the mining camp run by the Minerhall – to be made of stone rather than wood. He was eccentric, but the buildings were quite sturdy, and at least stone couldn't catch fire.

Madar stopped humming and rested his head in his hand, leaning his elbow on his knee. He would be too tired to mine any in the morning, the fifteen-Turn-old boy knew, but he just couldn't stand missing this calm. The lazy, balmy air, the gentle crashing of the surf, the sound of wind blowing through leaves, the buzzing insects…

Wait.

Where were the insects?

The night was eerily calm all of a sudden. The insects were dead-silent. The hair on Madar's neck stood on end, and he shivered, feeling a chill despite the warm night.

There was something _wrong_, oh so _wrong_. But what could it be?

He looked up at the night sky.

There was faint movement against the moon. Madar strained his eyes to see, but he couldn't make it out…

Suddenly, his view was blocked by a big body, glowing eyes staring at him, the watch-wher's scent washing over him. Madar could see by his glow the darker veins along his rusted-bronze flank, his father's wher, Majsk. His eyes were an unusual color, a red-yellow - Madar being used to their usual bluish color. He made a sound Madar had never heard before, _"Hrruh! Hrruh!"_

"Majsk, what are you-"

"_Hrruh!"_ Majsk repeated urgently, turning his body to block the sitting boy's view.

Suddenly, Madar smelled a strong, sulfuric stench, and he caught sight of a sack of something in Majsk's claws. The wher's claws tightened on the sack, and then he dropped it, letting the top fall open.

"Majsk, what's wrong?" Without getting up, Madar held up his glowbasket to see the watch-wher's face.

And there, at the very edge of the soft glowlight, was movement – silver, shimmering, deadly movement that made Madar's throat close up in horror, his eyes wide as he dropped the glowbasket.

Thread.

A green wher flew past, searing the clump with a gout of flame. Majsk ducked his head as she swooped over them, barely missing him. Her wings flapped feebly against the thick night air. Though whers could fly at night when the air was heavier, they couldn't do so for very long, especially the greens and blues, and this poor green was tiring.

Worse, there was a missed clump of Thread coming right for her, visible in the pale moonlight, beautiful silvery death landing on the exhausted wher's back. She let out a scream and escaped _between_, coming out close to the ground and landing in a crumpled, bloodied heap.

Madar whimpered. Thread. Thread. How? He leaned against Majsk as the wher extended a wing to shield the boy, crunching firestone. They couldn't take firestone very well, their flames were weak. But until the Weyr's dragons were roused, there was nothing more, save the brave little firelizards doing their very best to aid their malformed cousins.

Pressed against the watch-wher's side under the cover of his wingsail, Madar could hear the churning of the underdeveloped second stomach as it broke down the firestone. Majsk craned his neck up – harder for a wher's thick neck than a dragon's slender one – and belched his best stream of flame, searing a good deal of the clump - but the rest was left to fall on his body. Majsk screamed as the Thread ate into his bronze hide, but he couldn't escape _between_, Majen's son was counting on his protection.

"Majsk!" Madar gasped. "Don't die! Go _between_! Don't die!" His brain caught up to the situation, and he realized why the wher was there. What an idiot he was, sitting here while Thread was falling! He threw his arms around the bronze wher's Threadscored neck. He felt the Thread's thin form lashing against his arm, crying out as it bit into the new flesh. "Let's go to Father! Go _between_ to Father!"

Majsk gave an acknowledging grunt, and then they were surrounded by nothing. Madar whimpered as the cold of _between_ enveloped him, somehow aware he was still clinging to the wher's neck even though there was no sense of feeling. Air! No air, he had to breathe! But there was nothing for his lungs to take in.

And then he was on solid ground, still clinging to his father's wher's back, gasping for air. Strong hands were trying to pry him free, and he let him, let his father pull him away.

Stumbling against the wall, Madar took stock of his surroundings, breathing heavily. He was at the entrance of the mine tunnel, looking out. The green wher that had saved them earlier was clearly dead, eyes dull save reflected moonlight, tongue slipped out the side of her mouth.

"What were you doing awake?" Majen asked behind him.

"I like this place at night…" said Madar shakily, mind fumbling with the question while it took in the shock of the dead wher on the ground.

"Are you hurt?"

Madar swallowed and shook his head, consciously rubbing the small Threadscore on his arm.

Exhausted green and blue whers were landing now, unable to force their stunted wings to fly any longer. They made their way to the safety of the mine, tired and scored, guarded by firelizards that snatched portions of firestone from their near-empty sacks.

Madar stepped aside to let them through, and spoke when they had all gone deeper. "Majsk protected me."

"I know he did, I was telling him to."

"You were?"

"Do you think the whers are taking firestone all by themselves? The other handlers are deeper in the mine, fighting from behind their whers' eyes." Majen bent to examine the Threadscores on Majsk's back. "Hmm…" he mumbled worriedly. "…These could become infected if Threadfall doesn't end soon."

"Shards…" Madar moaned morosely, sitting cross-legged at the entrance, staring at the green corpse. "Why do I have to be such a dimglow?"

"I wish I could answer that," Majen replied tartly. Majsk made a pained, plaintive _bleek_ sound. "I know, I know, there was no way anyone could have known…"

Suddenly, the browns and bronzes were landing, and much larger shadows blocked the moonlight. The dragons had arrived, to fight Thread once again!


	2. Chapter 2: Fly the Fall

**EDIT: Sorry, the line breaks didn't upload, I thought they would. It's fixed now.**

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"B'raw! B'raw, wake up, there's Thread!" Sayri's urgent voice drifted through his sleep, her hand shaking him violently.

"Late for jokes…" the brownrider mumbled groggily, turning over and peering at his weyrmate through the veil of blond hair in front of his eyes.

_There's no joke!_ two draconic voices screamed in his head as Sayri's Rayomoth bespoke him alongside his own brown Eerdorth. _Thread falls over the Minerhall!_

_The watch-whers and firelizards have been calling for us, _Eerdorth continued alone as their weyrmates got ready. _We must hurry! Thread falls, Thread falls!_

"Oh, that's right. I need to get a flamethrower," said Sayri. "Hopefully, they still work…some of them were breaking in the last round of Games, remember?"

"I remember…" B'raw said, still rubbing the sleep from his eyes as he dressed.

"Mm. Well, we shouldn't worry. Worrying about your troubles will only ensure they come, my father always said." She smiled brightly at him. "I'll see you in the sky!" And with that, she mounted her small gold, the youngest in the Weyr, and they were off into the air.

* * *

Wingleader H'lav and Weyrleader S'eng were there to greet him and his fellow fighting riders. They would split into two small wings, they were told, one led by each. Sacks of firestone were handed out, delivered by unharmed firelizards from the Minerhall's camp, carrying the heavy bags in groups of three or four at a time. Some of them had been used by watch-whers, coming to the dragonriders nearly half-emptied. But they had to make do with what they could on such short notice.

B'raw wound up flying behind H'lav and Uldeuth, beside Wingsecond D'tib and his bronze Lyth. He couldn't help but feel hopelessly outclassed by these bronzes, knowing one of them would likely take Sayri from him. It was knowledge they'd both had since waking up the morning after the flight. He and Eerdorth had been lucky to fly Rayomoth; there wasn't any way – nor was it encouraged – that he would be able to fly her again. Now that Thread was falling, he felt that on a much deeper level. He felt a heaviness inside.

_I know you are attached to Sayri. And I like Rayomoth. But it is not good to have a clutch sired by a brown in times of Thread._

"Sharding Thread…" B'raw muttered angrily under his breath.

_Who likes it? _Eerdorth rumbled, the feeling of sardonic laughter echoing in B'raw's mind. _I will follow Uldeuth. We go _between.

It will be just like the Games, B'raw assured himself as he waited for the warm night over the Minerhall to replace the cold nothing of _between_. He never liked the Games much, but at least he had a reference point. At least he had some idea of what to do.

_But there is more danger than a few ropes in your face. These are Games we _must_ win._

"Yes," B'raw said aloud as they emerged to a chorus of cheerful calls from watch-whers and firelizards. "Let's win."

"That's the spirit!" D'tib called over to him from Lyth's back, having overheard due to their unexpected closeness. They had come out of _between_ a little too close together; Eerdorth's wingtip brushed against Lyth's. "Whoops, too close!" The bronzerider made a "move right" gesture towards them as the dragons turned their heads for the firestone.

"I can hardly see the Thread," B'raw remarked as he closed up his firestone sack again.

_The watch-whers offer to help us,_ Eerdorth said. _They are tired from fighting the Thread before us, but they will lend us their sight._

Before B'raw could ask how, Eerdorth continued suddenly – _Onath tells us to space ourselves, the watch-whers will be joining the wings!_ He sounded very excited to be following a battle order from the senior queen. His rider couldn't help but smirk, even as Eerdorth obeyed the Weyrwoman's gold and suddenly a low-slung being with smaller, stunted wings was flying alongside him.

_He is Mossk,_ Eerdorth relayed to B'raw. In earlier days, dragons would be disgusted at communicating with watch-whers, but as Threadless times had brought the two closer together in function, it seemed to bring them closer in spirit, as well. Not that their relationship was entirely _positive_ – Eerdorth's tone was one of amused fondness rather than equal indifference. Something of a "how adorable, they're trying to be dragons."

_Mossk says there is not enough firestone for him to fight with us, but he will be sending me what he sees so we may fight Thread. I wonder… Oh! This is how you see the world, Mossk?_ The amused tone was completely gone. _B'raw, you must see!_

And suddenly, B'raw was seeing an image, to the left of himself, the world masked in a cool blue filter, marked by shapes of yellow and orange – the dragons. He could see the heat of a body at work, the second stomachs showing up hot as they digested the firestone.

"This is incredible…" B'raw whispered as they flew towards a cluster of writhing, yellow life, their enemy. He watched, through the watch-wher's eyes, his own dragon belch a stream of fire, blinding, painful white. But for only an instant – Mossk closed his eyes.

_Mossk, please do not close your eyes from my flame, _Eerdorth counseled patiently. _I can't see if I burned the Thread or not._

Dragonflame couldn't be as bad as sunlight to them, B'raw thought. Then, he heard Eerdorth relay: _B'raw says it can't be as bad as the sun. Please work with us._

Suddenly, there was a dreadful screech from the Leader's Wing above them. All three pairs of eyes turned up, but Mossk's was the only one that mattered, the other two borrowing his vision to see the terror above them.

Two groups of five dragons had come out of _between_ without consulting each other first, all ten reacting rashly to their riders' panic at the unexpected pain of Threadscore.

And all ten of them had collided with one another midair. All ten of them were stunned, and falling.

_Oh, no._ The terror in Eerdorth's "voice" echoed B'raw's, and he could even feel Mossk's terror emanating from the watch-wher despite not being his handler.

Between, between_, follow me, Mossk!_ Eerdorth cried, leading the watch-wher _between_ before the falling dragons could crash into them. B'raw was sure his knuckles were white beneath his gloves, he was gripping the riding harness so hard.

They emerged into searing pain.

* * *

Eerdorth bellowed as the Thread ate into his hide, on his neck and flank. B'raw was screaming, too, and all he could hear from Mossk was _It hurts! It hurts! _

_Follow, Mossk!_ the dragon commanded sharply as he ducked _between_ again, sending a quick call for help to nearby wingmate Alorth. They came out behind the other brown and their watch-wher companion as he was flaming the cluster they had run into.

_Thank you, Alorth._

_You are welcome. Are you hurt badly?_

_We can still fly._

_I'm glad to hear that. Your clutch, Eerdorth, don't die before you see it. N'fac seconds that._

_Tell N'fac thank you for me. And thank you._

_I will, and you're welcome. Now let's fight._

_Let's. _Eerdorth turned his head back towards B'raw for more firestone, ignoring the pain from the Threadscore in his neck.

_Clutch, brown? _Mossk asked.

_I was lucky, _Eerdorth said. _But that means Pern is not._

_Why not? Clutch is good. More dragons. _ These were less words than ideas with words barely attached, as is the way watch-whers are heard by dragons. Eerdorth was sure blues and greens were even less eloquent than his brown ally.

_It will not be a good Threadfighting clutch, _he explained.

_Dragons fly, fight Thread. More dragons is good. More dragons, lucky Pern. Clutch is good, any sire._

Eerdorth inwardly chuckled at Mossk's logic, and thanked him for his vote of confidence. _I am happy,_ the watch-wher projected. Eerdorth assumed this meant "You're welcome". Then: _I hurt. Fight quick._

Eerdorth laughed gently at his ally, and continued to fight. Luckily, they didn't take any more injuries, and it was with the greatest relief to hear Artorth call triumphantly, _The Fall is over! _

As one, dragons, riders, watch-whers, and wherhandlers below cheered. Eerdorth felt little more than a part of a mass of joy, echoing from dragon to dragon. _I'm so happy, B'raw!_ he told his rider. If he had been human, he would've been crying. _We fought Thread! I did what I was born to do! We've done our duty as a dragonpair!_

He felt a bitterness from B'raw, though. Yes, he was relieved that the Fall was over, and he was happy they'd won with no casualties (the disaster in the Leader's Wing had righted itself, the dragons had regained their senses in time). But he hadn't expected to fight Thread, nor had he wanted it. Eerdorth was getting the feeling B'raw was perfectly happy to be a deliveryman and transportation.

And, most of all…

_Sayri,_ Eerdorth guessed before B'raw could think it. _I'm sorry._

_What are you two moping about?_ Rayomoth asked him. _We can all feel it, you're ruining the mood._

_I'm sorry. My rider is afraid of losing yours._

_What? Well, tell B'raw Sayri said to stop being silly. _Before he could relay that, though, he heard Rayomoth say, _B'raw, Sayri says stop being silly. And so do I. That goes for you, too, Eerdorth! You're both being silly! Stop it and be happy! I can't be with you every Threadfall, you know, I've got _your _clutch to guard, no more than three sevendays._

_I can't believe they let you fly._

_I won't complain._

Then, Onath interrupted: _Atrine says well-flown everyone. Please report to the dragonhealers, and will the most able volunteer for sweepriding?_

_Not able,_ Mossk remarked. _We're tired. We're hurt._

_Yes,_ Eerdorth agreed. _Let's land and rest, cousin._


End file.
